The Casanova Complex (Hellcats Hockey #3)

BENNETT

CHAPTER ONE

There’s only one thing that I know better than hockey.

Women.

Fuck, I love women.

All shapes and sizes.

Blondes, brunettes, redheads.

Thick thighs and soft, plush hips that I can bury my fingers into.

Silky, smooth skin that I can drag my tongue along.

Those low, breathy moans that echo in my ear when I have my face buried between their legs.

Now, don’t get me wrong, as much as I love all of those things about a woman, it’s not only the physical things that I’m attracted to.

I love their softness, their intelligence, their empathy.

I’m a feminist to my core.

I truly believe that women are the superior creatures and that they are smarter and more resilient than men.

It’s just a fact.

Sure, I might be able to pick up a woman and bench-press her body weight like I would a bar in the gym without breaking a sweat, but they sure as fuck have the ability to bring me to my knees without even lifting a finger.

On my knees at a woman’s feet might just be my favorite place to be.

Which makes my current predicament an extremely painful one.

My self-imposed celibacy.

I haven’t touched a woman in over six months.

One hundred and eighty-seven days.

That’s half a year.

But I mean, who’s counting?

Turns out that as much as I love sex, and as much as I love women, everything about them… all it takes is catching feelings one time to ruin it all.

Feelings I didn’t even realize I was capable of until the girl I wanted for way more than just a hookup turned me down. Repeatedly.

It wasn’t just my ego that took a hit.

Yeah, that shit sucked.

But it was in that moment, when she said I would never settle down, that I’d never be a one-woman kind of guy, it dawned on me… that’s actually exactly what I want.

It’s kind of like that saying “always the bridesmaid and never the bride”? Or however the fuck it goes.

I’m fucking tired of being the hookup. The good dick, the guy you call when you want to come, but never the guy you take seriously. The one who fucks you better than you’ve ever been fucked and at the same time… the guy you never bring home to meet your parents because it’s only temporary.

I’m always the fuck buddy, never the boyfriend.

And up until that moment, when Maisie Delacroix turned me down, I didn’t realize that I even wanted to be the boyfriend.

At first, I wanted her because I couldn’t have her. She’s one of the only girls I’ve ever tried to bag and couldn’t. But then the more she turned me down, laughing and rolling her eyes at how unserious and noncommittal I am, the more I realized that I truly did want her.

I actually liked her.

I wasn’t in love or anything crazy like that, but let’s just say Mais was an eye-opener for me.

We’re still friends, and now I know that’s for the better. But everything changed when I realized that what I want, what I really want deep down beneath my facade of confidence and ego and nonchalance, is something real.

It sounds cheesy and ridiculous, yeah.

I thought so, too, at first.

But it’s still the truth. And I can’t just go back to the way it was before. Believe me, I tried.

Contrary to what everyone on Orleans University’s campus believes, I want something more. Something substantive. Someone who makes my heart beat too fast, who gives me that permanent goofy, lovesick grin on my face.

That’s how I ended up here.

One hundred and eighty-seven days clean of random, meaningless hookups.

You see, in all of these realizations, the most important one of all is that I, Bennett Jude Legros, am an addict.

Not a sex addict, which is what I know you’re probably thinking, given the context.

I love sex, a whole fucking lot, but no.

That’s not what I’m addicted to.

It’s the chase.

That high, the rush of dopamine and serotonin firing in my brain when I’m chasing after someone new. The flirting, the late-night texts, the sneaking out of a window at her sorority house so the house mom doesn’t find me.

That irreplaceable feeling of being wanted.

Even if it was only for a night of incredible sex.

All of that is a thing of the past now that I’ve taken a vow of celibacy.

I realized that I couldn’t just keep chasing a temporary high, not when it quickly faded and left me feeling empty.

So, I swore off women.

I knew the only way I was going to become a recovering addict was to quit cold turkey. Take a break from women altogether to purge them completely out of my system.

Which means I’m on a detox… indefinitely.

No meaningless hookups.

No kissing, no fucking, no touching whatsoever.

No flirting at parties, no late-night texts.

Not until I find something that’s more.

I’m not going to lie… it’s been a challenge. A real uphill battle.

But giving up isn’t something a guy like me does. I’m not wired that way.

Nothing worth having comes easy, and when I finally get the girl? I know it’ll be worth the sacrifice.

She’s out there somewhere, whoever she is, and all I have to do is be patient. And when I find her, I’ll know. I’ll know that she’s the one.

Only then will I break this vow to myself.

Fuck being the bridesmaid. I’ve always been meant to be the bride.

Okay, that was a little too far, bu—

Something soft and squishy slams against my cheek, and I grunt, blinking as I pull myself from my thoughts, glancing around the room.

My gaze lands on the fucker wearing a shit-eating grin, staring directly at me.

“What the fuck, Zach?” I grunt, looking down to find a pair of tits sitting in my lap.

Foam ones, that is.

I pick up the tits-shaped stress reliever, pale ones with dusty pink nipples, and I squish it in my palm, making a fist.

Go figure the only tits I’ve touched in half a year are fake ones. And not the silicone kind of fake, un-fucking-fortunately.

I look back at my best friend and give those delicious, squishy breasts one last good squeeze before pegging him in the forehead with them.

“That’s what you get, fucker.” I smirk when he lifts his hands and flips me both middle fingers. “Why are you hitting me with shit?”

“I hit you with titties,” he says, wiggling them in the air along with his dark eyebrows. “Dude, you were lost in fucking la-la land for like ten minutes. I called your name like five times.”

Okay, yeah, fair.

I was thinking about the self-imposed prison that I’ve currently placed myself into.

I’m basically a fucking monk.

“Yeah, sorry,” I mutter, bringing the plastic cup of beer to my lips and taking a sip. It’s room temp now that I’ve been holding it for so long, but fuck it. “Just thinking about Friday’s game.”

Zach rolls his eyes, tossing the tits back at me once again.

They hit me in the chest and fall pitifully to my lap.

“We’re at a fucking Phi Mu party, Bennett.

Do you see how many hot girls are walking around this place wearing bikinis?

Just us and some tiny scraps of fabric separating us from the promise land. ”

I take a second to do a slow sweep of the room and see there are, in fact, beautiful women everywhere wearing next to nothing.

The old Bennett would have been having a field day here, but the new Bennett is not.

I mean, obviously, I can appreciate the fact that these are some gorgeous fucking women, and they look delectable in these bikinis.

I am still a man.

But I’m a man on a mission, so therefore, there’s no partaking in sorority girls, or any girls for that matter.

Zach doesn’t know that though. Actually, no one knows that.

Even my best friends.

I’m not hiding it, per se. I’m just… not making a big deal about it. My sex life, or lack thereof, isn’t something that needs to be broadcasted.

People are going to think whatever they think about you regardless of what you say, so I’m just letting them.

If everyone on campus wants to think I’m a playboy who’s getting his dick wet by a different girl every night, then they can.

Who am I to stop people from assuming?

“Okay? And? I’m drinking, chilling. Having a good time,” I retort, taking another sip of my beer to prove my point.

Zach shoots out of the chair across from me and moves to the couch, flopping down beside me.

His expression is somber, surprisingly serious.

His palm curves over the top of my shoulder.

“Look, I know you’re stressing about this season, I get it.

We lost the first couple of games—it fucking sucks.

And this shit with Gauthreaux is causing tension, I get it. ”

I nod along, and he lifts a shoulder, shrugging.

“But it’s just a couple of games. We’ll get our shit together and still make playoffs.

We’ve got a whole season ahead of us still, man.

And everything with Gauthreaux will work itself out.

But you know what I am worried about? Way more worried about than losing a few games at the beginning of our season and your little issue with Gauthreaux?

” When I lift a brow, he leans in closer, his voice dropping low.

“You pulling your head out of your ass and living fucking life, man.”

A wide grin pulls at his lips, and he slaps me on the shoulder. “It’s senior year. The last year we’ve got before we’re both playing for the league, going to clubs and drinking thousand-dollar bottles of bourbon, spending our salaries on the finer things in life.”

I scoff, a sudden, sharp twist of anxiety flaring to life inside me.

“Yeah, well, we keep playing like this, I can kiss my chance at any of that goodbye. Coach is going to bench me and put in fuckface if I don’t prove to him that I deserve to be in the net more than Gauthreaux ever will. That’s why I’m so fucking stressed.”

Plus, it’s easy for Zach to say when he got drafted by Chicago over the summer.

He wanted to stay and finish at OU and get his degree first, so while Chicago cares how the team does this season, they care more about the player they’ve got rights behind.

All he’s got to worry about is not doing something stupid like fighting, or fucking off, or getting injured this season. He’s already got a team ready to sign him when the year’s over.

He’s one of the best defensemen I’ve ever played with, and we both know that they’re going to sign him next year.

They’d be stupid not to. Any team in the league should want him on the roster.

Me, on the other hand…

Yeah, I’m not as hopeful.

I went undrafted, becoming a free agent. And I’ve had interest. Several scouts have shown up asking my coaches about me, talking to the trainers about my recovery. A few have shown up more than once last season to watch.

But I can’t sign with anyone, even if I do have someone calling, until the season’s over and I play my last game. Which means I have to show a team that I’m worth investing in.

So this year is the most important year of my college career, and we’re already off to a shitty fucking start.

Starting with the fact that Blake Gauthreaux transferred to OU from the University of Lafayette over the summer to play his senior year with us.

Which I generally wouldn’t give two fucks about.

But Gauthreaux is a goalie.

The biggest asshole I’ve ever met. But as much as it truly pains me, physically, to admit, he’s fucking incredible in the net.

When we lost Browning last season after he graduated, Coach Taylor brought in Gauthreaux.

That was a real fucking fun conversation to have before we left for camp.

You see, those scouts that had been watching… their number one feedback was that I’m fire in the net, but they’re worried I haven’t faced enough “adversity.”

I’ve never had to fight for the net.

And Taylor thinks this is the perfect way to show them I can handle the pressure when there’s a proverbial blade at my throat.

So Gauthreaux and I are splitting starts.

We’re in tandem this year, and I fucking hate it.

I hate him.

Not only because he’s a threat to my position on the team, but because he’s a piece of shit who runs his mouth and doesn’t give a fuck about being a team. He’s out for himself only.

And it’s only made things worse that I’ve been playing like shit since he’s arrived. I’m in a rut, and I need to snap out of it fast.

It’s going to be a long season.

I get why Zach’s worried ’cause I’m not usually the mopey, introspective kind of guy.

The opposite, really, but I’m just in my head tonight.

Friday’s game is looming, and I hate that the most important season of my life started the way it has. Hate that Gauthreaux is the problem I never expected to have.

Zach’s right though.

This is our senior year.

It’s the last time we’ll all be together in the place we call home. The last time we’ll have these memories to make. Shit, we’ve already lost Saint, and it sucks losing one of your boys.

Saint Devereaux is one of my best friends, and now he’s across the country playing for the New York Wolves, leaving me here all alone with these dicks to finish out our senior year.

“Nah, that shit’s not happening. You hear me? You’re going to be signed to the best fucking team in the league. I know this isn’t the Bennett Legros saying this bullshit. No, that guy is the most relentless, stubborn motherfucker I’ve ever met.”

I laugh. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Zach nods. “I know I am. Plus, you’re also the most superstitious fucker I know, and this mindset?” He taps my temple. “Ain’t working, so let it go, and loosen the fuck up. C’mon, let’s party, brother. Do you see the amount of tits here?”

He swipes the stress-reliever ones from where he dropped them in my lap and squeezes them with a shit-eating smirk.

“Yeah, remind me again why there are tits everywhere? I mean, not that I’m complaining, but…”

Internally, I am absolutely fucking complaining because I can look, but I can’t touch.

“It’s October, breast cancer awareness month. Phi Mu is raising money for the Cancer Society, hence the wet T-shirt contest about to happen over there.” He points to the right, and there’s a group of girls and guys wearing pink, setting up a mini stage in the middle of the sorority house.

I hum. “You know, now that you mention it, I think that October might just be the best month of the year. Hockey and boobs.”

“Fuck yeah, it is. Here’s to our senior year.”

When Zach lifts his cup between us, I tap mine against his. And to that, we fucking drink.